


The Arrancar Talks

by thekurosakiconundrum



Category: Bleach
Genre: Brief mild 676 spoiler, First Person, Grimmjow's skill at dirty talk, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-accidental voyeurism, Showers, Weird Humor, Well not really, he could have left, or lack thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekurosakiconundrum/pseuds/thekurosakiconundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo recounts how an irritating towel-delivery mission changed his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arrancar Talks

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not sure I'm totally happy with this, but I figured someone might like it so I'd post it anyway. 
> 
> It was an experiment in 1st person POV instead of my usual very in-their-head third person limited. My long story, EJ, say, is almost like borderline first person, so I'm like hey, why not go all the way for once! 
> 
> It's also a little bit different Ichigo voice than I usually do, although some things, like the tendency towards tangents, have stayed. See, the idea was to focus (I just tried to type 'focus' and it came out 'fuck', I think I've been writing too much smut lately) on Ichigo just being like, a normal horndog guy. So the descriptions of things are not exactly the way the usually are. I flatter myself by thinking I'm usually pretty lyrical with all that filthy sex I describe, ordinarily, but this is not so lyrical. It's on purpose, but still.
> 
> Grimmjow's a little different here from the usual here, too. He's also a... well, you'll see.
> 
> Let me know what you think, dear readers!

So, the Arrancar Talks. That’s what they came to be known as, the negotiations for the Shinigami-Arrancar treaty that set up the Arrancar as a self-governing, independent group, off-limits for offensive action by Shinigami and free to visit the Human World so long as they wore a special limiter gigai while they were there, functionally equivalent to the Gentei Kaijo. If any individual harmed humans or Shinigami, their protected status could be revoked, but if they behaved, they were free to do as they wished. It was a historic event and, in my opinion, a huge milestone for Soul Society’s policy towards other entities with spiritual powers, (by not being, you know, genocide) but that’s not really why I remember it.

The talks were held in the Living World, for neutrality’s sake. Also for neutrality’s sake, they were hosted by Kisukue Urahara, who had stubbornly refused to reintegrate into Soul Society even after they belatedly cleared him of the charges that had forced him into exile and hiding in the first place.

We helped him, the whole Karakura team, me and Inoue and Ishida and Chad, Tatsuki and Keigo, Chizuru and Mizuiro, my family, hell, even Kon. We worked for weeks to convert most of his underground training facility temporarily into quarters for the visiting Arrancar and Shinigami, plus common spaces and meeting rooms, and then after they left, we changed it all back. Yuzu and Mizuiro did most of the catering, and they freaking killed it. Great job, guys.

But that’s not why I remember it, either.

You see, I like to think of day five of the Arrancar Talks as the day my life changed genres. Before that, it was all action and adventure, but after that, it became some kind of bizarre mashup, half action, half… well, half a different kind of action. Don’t worry, I’ll explain in a minute.

Prior to the Arrancar talks, the genre of my life was relatively straightforward: I basically lived in a shōnen manga. It was all fighting Hollows and occasionally saving the world from whatever dumbass problem Soul Society managed to cook up for itself, mixed with a lot of studying and a little partying. The college part didn’t affect the genre, I didn’t think, because it felt like a montage a lot of the time anyway. The action and adventure, that was my real life. That was the point of it all.

But on day five of the Arrancar Talks, I accidentally wandered into a scenario out of a different genre entirely and it kind of ended up shaking up my life a bit. Seriously, it was a thing straight off the page out of a very different kind of manga or straight out of a different kind of film than the one I had thought my life resembled. What genre, you ask? Well, much to my surprise, I had stumbled out of adventure and _straight into gay porn._

‘Stumbled straight into gay porn?’ Heh. Better than stumbling gayly into straight porn, ‘cause that’s just not my thing. I don’t really do anything gayly—seriously, people tell me I need to smile more _all the time_. Also, straight porn does nothing for me. Hmm, actually, now that I think about it, I guess I was already a little way out of bounds on normal shōnen rules, what with the letting down my large-breasted female friend who’s always had feelings for me as gently as I could and promptly setting out to get some more penis in my life. So perhaps I should have seen the genre-mashup nature of my post-Arrancar Talks life coming. But then again, I can’t imagine how I could have. 

I still fight Hollows and I still sometimes save the world, although not as often because it seems like Seireitei is finally starting to run out of really stupid things they’ve done in the past that are coming back to haunt them. I certainly hope so, anyway. I still study, although I’m almost done doing that and soon working a 9-to-5 will be the montage-worthy part of my life. But in between those things, well, yeah. If you filmed it, it would be mostly gay porn. Sometimes feelings, but mostly porn. That’s right, folks, my sex life is hella awesome, and it all started because of the Arrancar Talks.

So, you might ask: Ichigo, how did you find yourself in such a situation?

* * *

 

“Grimmjow is in the shower and I need you to go take him a towel,” Urahara says. “We forgot to restock them after this morning.”

What the hell? 

“Uh, sorry, no,” I reply. Grimmjow can just drip dry if he forgot to bring his own damn towel to the shower or try to dry off with toilet paper or his dirty shirt from before the shower or something. I did the latter once when I forgot that I had forgotten to wash towels. It sucked. Okay, fine, I’ve done the former, too. Shut up, I’m a guy in college, I’m allowed to act like a guy in college.

“You know if you don’t he’s just going to come out of the bathroom naked and drip all over the place until he finds a towel,” Urahara points out, and yeah, okay I can totally picture that. It’s kind of a hilarious mental image, actually, him rampaging around looking for a towel, dripping malevolently on anyone who crosses his path.

“That’s my problem, how? It’s your guys’ floor on the line, get Jinta to do it.” I might be a sort of general dogsbody for the host of the talks, but being reduced to bringing my semi-enemy clean towels is just too much.

“Jinta’s busy. Now, Yuzu’s going to be here soon to bring everyone dinner. Karin’s coming, too,” Urahara informs me. “Ururu went over to help get it ready and she’s coming back, too. Do you really want them to see the scenario we just discussed?”

Urahara’s such a jackass. He knows just how to manipulate my big brother instincts. Of course I don’t want my little sisters and Ururu to see Grimmjow’s naked ass. For one thing, it’s a damn fine ass and I don’t want them admiring it too much because the guy that’s attached to it is just as much of an ass as his _actual ass_. Also, I can’t help wanting to keep my sisters and naked men just as generally separate as I can. Yeah, that’s a bit outdated, I know. So sue me.

Damn that Urahara. Of course, I end up taking Grimmjow the stupid towel. Two of them, in fact, because apparently Grimmjow’s a chick and needs a separate towel for his hair. Now here’s my plan: I’m gonna open the door real quietly, set the towels in there, and duck back out again. I don’t want Grimmjow knowing I’m bringing him stuff or he’ll start expecting me to do it all the time. That shit? Not my job.

So I get there and manage step one, silently entering the room with no difficulty because Grimmjow had apparently not been paying attention and left the door open a crack.

That’s when things start getting weird.

I’m standing in the doorway looking around for a place to set these damn towels down because Grimmjow is a slob and his shit is everywhere. Clothes, shoes, and how does a guy who hasn’t been in the human world for more than a week acquire so many grooming supplies? Actually, to be fair, I don’t think it’s all his. But it’s still in my way.

Then I hear my name. 

It’s so quiet that for a second I’m not even sure I heard it, and it sounds strange, strained, as if the person uttering it is in pain. I freeze, still in the doorway, listening hard, envisioning Grimmjow calling out for help as he dies (or re-dies or whatever) in some freak gigai malfunction or lethal shampoo allergy or something.

Then I hear it again. This time, it’s not just my name.

“Aw, fuck, Kurosaki,” Grimmjow pants from within the shower, a little louder. He groans, “ _Yeah_.”

What. 

I mean, what?

My first horrified thought is that he’s in there with some other Kurosaki, like one of my sisters. They’re sixteen now, old enough to do what they want with boys or girls their own age but Grimmjow’s a grown-ass Arrancar and that shit is not okay. I can’t imagine either of them going for it, but seducing my sister sure sounds like something Grimmjow would try to do. Get laid _and_ get me pissed off enough to fight him, talks be damned? Sound like a win-win from Grimmjow’s point of view. Until I murder him, anyway.

But I stick my head around the corner and glance at the lightly frosted glass, which tells me there’s only one body in that shower, thankfully.

Next I think _surely I’ve misheard_ , but I already know that’s not true. I know what a guy sounds like when he’s got a hand on his dick, and that’s what I just heard. I stand there, still frozen, still staring at his clothes on the floor. His boxers are mocking me. They’re navy blue and look weirdly expensive; silk, maybe. Nothing but the best for Grimmjow’s junk, apparently.

The question remains, sort of—what Kurosaki is he thinking about? It’s probably not my dad (God, I hope not!), so it’s either me or one of my sisters. He hasn’t had much contact with either of them, so I think I’m the best bet, though that seems unlikely as hell, too. Grimmjow isn’t actively trying to kill me anymore, but he sure doesn’t like me.

“Ah, shit. Yeah, that’s it, fuckin’ take it, ya— _nnn…_ ya bastard, take that dick. Ya love it, don’t ya, Kurosaki? Such a fuckin’… _ah, yeah…_ such a fuckin’ slut _.”_

Before I really know what I’m doing, I’ve stepped inside and closed the door behind me. You bastard, he said. You don’t call girls that. I refuse to consider that the possibility that he’s fixated on the other male Kurosaki, so it must be me. He might not like me, but apparently he wants to fuck me.

I don’t quite know how to process this information.

Grimmjow is _jerking off_ to thoughts of me. 

 _Grimmjow_ is jerking off to thoughts of _me._

My brain starts trying to fill in the details of his fantasy from what I’ve heard, completely without my permission. You love it, he said, don’t you. Such a fucking slut. Do I? Am I? In his head, I mean. Am I bent over for him willingly, or has he fought me and won, forced me to submit?

That’s the thing with Grimmjow. I can never figure out just how bad he is, just how far he’s willing to go to get what he wants. Sometimes he seems like a monster, other times he seems almost decent. Is his imaginary Ichigo actually enjoying himself, or was that ‘you love it’ meant to be something vicious and vile? I have to know, for reasons. What reasons, I can’t specify. Just reasons. It seems important. It seems like an important thing to know about someone you’re negotiating on behalf of, despite the fact that I am not personally doing much negotiating. 

I risk another peek at the shower door. This time, I take a longer look, curious, trying to see as much as I can. I can see him in fuzzy flesh-colored outline, side-on, a bit from the back, standing under the spray half bent over, propped up with one hand on the wall and his blue-haired head hanging down. I can’t help but notice that it’s the exact same stance you’d find me in if I was the one jerking off in the shower, except for how he’s not so much stroking himself as he is fucking his hand, hips snapping hard. I can’t see him that clearly, but I can’t not envision the bunch and pull of his muscles as he works his hips, and worse, I can’t help but imagine myself there in front of him, in the shower, _taking that dick_ the way he wants me to. And so there we stand, me imagining him giving it to me like he’s imagining him giving it to me.                                                                              

I’m hard. He’s an _Arrancar_ —a Hollow, sort of—possibly jacking off to thoughts of _raping_ me and I’m hard. Not just a little, not an ambivalent semi. I’m like _hard_ hard, and I can feel the hot flush of arousal prickling over my skin, eager for touch. I want to fuck. I want to be fucked. God, I’m so fucking sick sometimes. 

“Gonna come on my dick, aren’tcha, Kurosaki?” Grimmjow pants, and shit, that answers that question. I do love it—in his head, I mean. He’s imagining a wholly willing Ichigo under him. He’s imagining pleasing me, and he likes it. 

I feel slightly better about how turned on I am, but not entirely because it’s still Grimmjow. It’s not like I’ve never noticed that he’s physically pretty hot, but he’s just such a crazy destructive fuckhead. And he’s an Arrancar. He might be halfway rational now, but he spent most of his life as a Hollow, devouring his own kind to survive and grow stronger. I’m listening to a cannibal talk dirty to himself and it’s making me so fucking hard it’s like my dick’s trying to burrow its way out of my pants. How is this my life?

“That’s it, baby, keep moanin’ like the fuckin’ whore you are. Let me hear how much you want me to cream up your tight little hole.”

Baby. What the fuck—baby? This is so damn surreal. Not just the ‘baby’ part, but also how it seems like how bad his fantasy Ichigo wants it is the main thing he’s getting off on. For such a self-centered individual as Grimmjow, that feels unexpected, but then again maybe it’s not. Grimmjow never just wanted to kick my ass, he wanted me to admit that he was stronger, too. This must be like that, kind of, somehow. My submission isn’t enough for him, he wants me to want it.

Or maybe he just wants me to want _him._  

 _No,_ I think, _surely not._

Grimmjow groans, and I’ve got to admit, it’s a fucking sexy sound.

But it’s _Grimmjow_ , and his fantasy sounds so normal that it kinda freaks me out. There should be blood; there should be violence. I might actually be less weirded out if he really was fantasizing about raping me.

Instead, there are all the same things that get normal guys off—that get _me_ off—but he’s an _Arrancar_. He’s an Arrancar, and there he is, mouthing off this ridiculous dirty talk that turns me on despite myself, and I don’t know what to do with that. It probably turns him on despite himself, too, or maybe he doesn’t know how trashy it sounds.

 _Cream up your tight little hole._ That shouldn’t be anywhere near as hot as it is. Fuck, the thought of Grimmjow _creaming up my tight little hole_ makes my dick twitch hard against my zipper, makes my face flush warm with wanting. I’m a doctor’s son and thereby a stickler for condoms, so I’ve never felt that and oh, god, do I ever want to. 

I know I should leave. He sounds like he’s getting close—this would be the ideal time to slip away unnoticed, right when he’s most distracted. But I can’t not hear the end. I can’t not hear Grimmjow come for me.

Not for me.

For the me in his head. 

Right then, there’s a part of me that wants the two Ichigos to be one in the same. Yeah, you can probably guess which part.

Good thing it’s not in charge.

Except for how it kind of is, because I’m not leaving. Instead, my hand is making its way across the top of my thigh to rub at my dick through my pants. It’s been far too long since I last got laid, it’s even been a few days since I last did what Grimmjow’s doing now—I’m _so. Fucking. Hard_. It’s maddening to be in such a state, and it’s irritating as all hell that Grimmjow of all people put me in it. The pressure of my hand feels so much better than it has any right to and I bite my lip to narrowly avoid making a sound. 

I can’t stop thinking about what’s going on in Grimmjow’s head. What position are we doing it in? Is he imagining me in the shower with him or is it something else entirely? In Grimmjow’s head, is he jerking me off while he fucks me? Or am I doing it? Or does he imagine me coming untouched, just from his dick inside me? I’ve never done that in my life, but I’m so turned on, I feel like I could.

“Ah fuck, fuck, Kuro… saki! Ah, yer so… fuckin’ hot…”

Grimmjow thinks I’m hot? I mean, yeah, I guess that’s obvious from what he’s doing, but still. Maybe he means I feel hot inside.

Shoving my own dick into something hot sounds _really_ goddamn appealing right now. Something hot like Grimmjow’s wide, sensual, filthy-things-saying mouth. That mouth has grabbed my attention many times, mostly because I want to make it shut the fuck up, but also because it’s a really nice mouth. I could shut it up by holding Grimmjow’s face between both my hands and sticking my dick in his mouth, down his throat. I could fuck his mouth the way I’ve never let myself do to anyone. Grimmjow could take it. 

Oh, _hell_ yeah. That sounds so hot, having Grimmjow Jaegerjaques down on his knees for me. Instead of me _taking that dick_ the way he says, it would be him, taking _my_ dick. 

 _That’s right, Grimmjow,_ I think, briefly closing my eyes and tilting my head down, envisioning how Grimmjow would look with his lips stretched around my dick as I grind against my hand. In my head, I tell my imaginary Grimmjow to _fucking shut up and take it._ I picture my dick sliding deeper, deeper past his lips, _hot_ and _wet_ with that ring of gut-clenching tightness that you only get when someone deep throats you, where your dick passes the boundary of their esophagus or what-the-fuck-ever. I want to fuck Grimmjow’s mouth hard and deep, feel my balls smack against his chin, feel his nose up against my belly. I want him gagging and drooling around my dick, helpless.

 _Shit._ The fantasy passes over and through me, leaving yet more arousal in its wake. I don’t usually get off on the rough stuff, at least not from that side of the equation, because I’m just physically too strong to risk letting myself go there. I could hurt someone by accident. But Grimmjow’s a sturdy guy—if I hurt him, it would be _on purpose_. The thought curls through me like some unaccustomed drug-smoke, dark and illicit and heady. Grimmjow has always brought out the worst in me, and a part of me loves the way that feels.

I peer back over at him and he’s standing closer to the wall now, nearly upright, still fucking into his fist. I think ‘humping’ is an extremely unappealing word, but that’s what he’s doing and it’s the furthest thing from unappealing—his back is rounded, his knees are bent and he’s thrusting as much up as he is forward, letting out a quiet grunt of pleasure and effort at the crest of each stroke. Grimmjow’s an animal, and while usually that’s a bad thing, its a good one for this. Fucking like animals is the best way to fuck, in my opinion.

He’s imagining he’s got me pinned against that wall; he must be. Shit, I love it up against a wall, maybe even more than doing it lying down. I’ve done it the way Grimmjow’s imagining and it was hot as hell, but I was in Grimmjow’s position, not imaginary Ichigo’s. Where am I gonna find a dude strong enough to hold me up for more than a minute?

Right over there, clearly. Grimmjow would likely be strong enough to do it even without that monster reiryoku of his, and with it, he wouldn’t even break a sweat. The thought makes the wet patch I can feel where the tip of my dick presses up against my boxer-briefs grow and spread, my cock drooling copiously the way it does when I’m really turned on but haven’t been able to come for whatever reason. My pants are majorly uncomfortable, but I’m not going to start working myself hard enough through them to make me blow my load into my underwear. Admittedly, I’m mostly not doing that because I don’t know if I could do it silently and the rest of the way not doing it because I don’t want to come until after I hear him do it.

I’m also not going to take my dick out and start jerking it like some creepy voyeur. Yeah, right—because this is clearly totally fine, standing in Urahara’s bathroom listening to my enemy jerk off. So long as I keep my pants on, that makes it not creepy and wrong and an invasion of Grimmjow’s privacy. Of course!

Whatever. I don’t care how creepy this is, it feels too good to stop. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited—I don’t really like porn that much, it just kinda grosses me out, and my own mind or the occasional dirty manga or book doesn’t usually get me anywhere near this hot unless I have some particularly exciting new material to work with, like I will after this. Actually, some of the sex I’ve had has turned me on less than this. Am I a voyeur? Is that a thing that I have, a fetish, a kink? Great, because I totally needed another one of those.

I risk another look. Grimmjow seems to be a front-facing showerer, so I don’t think it’s too hazardous. I’m fascinated, and even though I can’t see him that well, I can’t pass up the opportunity to observe him.

Grimmjow’s gigai allows him to pass for human, but only so long as he wears a shirt. He insisted on keeping that freaky-ass hole through his middle, and I can see it now on his back, but, oddly, it doesn’t make me any less turned on. 

My phrasing makes me smile, despite everything. Freaky-ass hole? Freaky asshole? Does Grimmjow have one of those? Just to be clear, I’m taking freaky in the Rick James kind of sense, a freaky asshole meaning one that likes to get fucked. Grimmjow doesn’t really seem like the type, but then again, neither do I, so I know how little that means. 

Mmm, he’d be so _tight_. So hot inside. He’s got such a nice ass, and it would look even nicer with my dick opening it up, disappearing into his hole. He’d fucking moan for me, wouldn’t he. Yeah, he would—I bet he’s the type who prefers to top but loves a good dicking, too. And I can give him that—I’m just the reverse, I like it best on the bottom but I can dish it out just as well as I can take it, and Grimmjow makes me feel pretty damn inspired to fuck him senseless.

I’m a nice guy, so I’d jerk him off while I did it. Make him come. That’s got to be one of the greatest feelings in the world, making somebody come good and hard while you’ve got your dick in their ass. Shit, the way they squeeze you, it almost hurts. A suffocating amount of pleasure. It almost always sets me off, either coming right then and there or desperate to pull out and strip the condom off, jacking my cock as fast as I can until I fucking shoot it all over their back or their belly.

I wouldn’t do that with Grimmjow.

Oh no, I most definitely would not.

He’d squeeze down on me and I’d… How’d he put it? I’d _cream up his tight little hole._  

Oh, _fuck_ yeah. It’s so stupid but that phrase gets me so hot I can’t stand it, thinking about fucking myself through my orgasm, fucking my come into him, out of him, seeing it leaking out around my bare dick, all over it, so fucking nasty, oh…

The only thing I’m gonna end up creaming is my goddamn pants if I don’t stop thinking about this.

I open my squeezed-shut eyes and look over at Grimmjow. I know that’s not going to calm me down at all, but I do it anyway. 

Shit, he moved. I can see Grimmjow’s cock now, sort of. The general shape of it, anyway—enough to see that it’s fucking _big as hell_. Of course it is. I can’t picture it any other way—there’s never been anything average about Grimmjow. That turns me on even more, the thought of feeling it in my hand, my mouth, my ass. I’m man enough to admit that I like a big dick as much as the next admirer of the male form.

“You wanna come?” Grimmjow asks hotly, and I am seriously _this close_ to saying something like “fuck, yes, I do,” before I remember he’s not actually talking to me, or he’s not talking to the actual me, or whatever.

Responding to what must have been an equally enthusiastic yes from my imaginary counterpart, he continues, “No, baby. Not yet. Maybe if ya ask me real nice I’ll let ya.”

My free hand flies out to the wall to keep my buckling knees from dumping me on the floor. I silently thank the gods and patron saints of creeps like me that it doesn’t make much noise. 

Fucking _of course_ Grimmjow’s a huge tease. He couldn’t resist drawing it out, enjoying his control of the situation. He’d love that, wouldn’t he, making me beg.

Who am I kidding—I’d love that, too. 

_Ask me real nice._

I think the words, imagine what it would feel like to say them. _Please, Grimmjow. Please, make me come, let me come._

It would feel like all the guilty pleasures rolled into one, that’s what it would feel like. I know I can be be proud, so you’d think I’d hate it, you’d think that if I did it I’d be ashamed of myself—and you’d be exactly half right. The second half, but not the first.

I have inhibitions, but as you can probably guess by the fact I’m still here, they all fall away once I pass a certain point, once the fire inside me hits the right temperature. The fact of the matter is that once I get excited, I get off on how much of a slut I can be, and right now, hell yes I would beg this stupid blue-haired jerk to let me come. He didn’t even really ask me do it and I can feel the words struggling to escape my mouth.

I fucking love that stuff but I’ve always had to struggle to suspend disbelief when I get into those kinds of games. It’s hard for me to think I’m _really_ being dominated by some little 5’6” 120-soaking-wet dude.

Not Grimmjow.

Oh, not Grimmjow. I honestly don’t know who’s the stronger of the two of us anymore, but he’s bigger than me and he practically radiates sexual dominance. I wouldn’t have to imagine Grimmjow in control of the situation because he really would be.

But we’re evenly matched enough that it’s not out of the realm of possibility that I could grab control, too. I can’t decide which way makes me hotter.

 _Ask me real nice,_ I think again, and this time I imagine it in my own voice. 

I’d love it if Grimmjow made me beg and I’d love it just as much if he was the one begging me. _Ichigo, please._ My dick twitches and throbs at the thought of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Grimmjow say please, and if he’d do it for me…

 _Ichigo, let me come,_ Grimmjow pleads, his big cock red and dripping as I hold him up against the wall and give it to him as rough as I like. _Ichigo, please, fuck me harder. Please, Ichigo, give me your come. Please, Ichigo, cream up my tight little hole._ Shit. It sounds impossible but it also sounds like Grimmjow’s pretty hot for me so who knows.

It’s so hard keeping silent with thoughts like these running through my head. Grimmjow’s not quiet. He’s noisier than I am when I jerk off, even when I have sex. Well, maybe not when I bottom—it’s hella difficult to be quiet with a dick up your ass. But other than that, definitely he’s noisier.

It’s hot that Grimmjow’s so noisy. Though, to be fair, right now, everything is hot. I’m sweating like crazy and not because of the steam from the shower. My dick aches. This feels like it’s been going on forever—I thought he was almost done a while ago but he’s drawing it out, working himself like its Saturday morning and he’s got nowhere to be. This isn’t maintaining-your-body jerking off, this is pleasure-for-pleasure’s-sake jerking off. Why he’s doing it in Urahara’s shower, who the fuck knows, but he’s clearly enjoying the hell out of himself right now.

‘Grunt’ is not a sexy word. It’s the sound a pig makes. But Grimmjow grunts at the crest of every stroke, there’s no other word for it, and the sounds he’s making right now are so fucking sexy it hurts. Not even remotely like a pig, but definitely like an animal, raw and hot and hungry. Men are trained to be quiet during sex, but Grimmjow’s not exactly a man, now is he. He’s never had to be quiet. I bet whenever he fucks whoever it is that he fucks, he wants the whole world to know. Didn’t he say something like that, like he wanted me to moan like a whore?

How does Grimmjow even know what a whore is, I wonder. 

He shouldn’t ever have to pay for it, with a face like that. Right now, I feel like I’d fucking pay _him_. My free hand—the one that’s not on my dick, that is—has come off the wall and is now kneading my ass. Grimmjow’s hands are bigger than mine, I think—I squeeze harder, imagining broader, blunter fingers. 

I run my fingers along my crack and it feels good, teasing, makes me feel like I want something in me. That spark catches and flames up, and want becomes overwhelming need—it’s a physical ache, an emptiness inside me. I get this craving sometimes, for something big and wide stretching my ass open, invasive and strange and so fucking good. My eyes actually fucking scan the counter around the sink for something vaguely phallic before I realize what I’m doing and stop, try to rein myself in. I’m not going to fuck myself with a hairbrush handle like I used to when I was fifteen.

I should flash step out of here and back to my apartment and give myself what I want, though I know I won’t. If I did, though, I have just the thing—I finally gave in and bought a dildo half a year ago. It’s a nice one—my birthday present to myself, top of the line faux-skin silicone, looks just like the real thing, like when you see it you just want to suck on it. It’s not as big as Grimmjow’s, though, which is good ‘cause I’m not the world’s most patient guy. I could go out and get myself some actual dick, but Karakura isn’t Tokyo—things get around, in a small city like this. It’s not a good idea to indulge too often, so mostly I just settle for the fake dick I ordered from the internet. I’m so impatient and hot that I’d probably just lube it up and shove it in. It’d hurt, but when I get like this I don’t mind. 

Mmm, yeah, that sounds fucking good as hell right about now. What kind of stupid expression is that, good as hell. It’s like ‘cold as balls.’ Balls aren’t cold, ordinarily. Not a prime example of a cold thing, certainly. Unless maybe they’re Hitsugaya’s. Mine aren’t cold, they’re… oh hell, they’re drawn up tight against my body already, I want it _that bad_.

I’m seriously considering stripping and getting in the shower with Grimmjow. I know I won’t really, but the fucking sounds he’s making… Not loud, exactly, but almost constant. I don’t know what he’s doing to himself but it sounds like it’s fucking awesome. I wish I could see better. See how he does it, how he likes it, hot tight, how fast, how wet. 

By the way his hips move, I can tell he likes it hard, but that was always a given. 

“I know you’re out there, Kurosaki,” Grimmjow says, and it takes my lust-fogged brain a moment to parse the way in which this is different from everything he’s said previously.

I freeze. I feel my dick jump under my hand, pulsing out slick, the traitor. I have no idea what’s going to happen. My dick apparently thinks we’re going to have sex now, but I don’t know about that. It seems more likely that he’s going to try to kill me for daring to listen in. If he comes out of the shower wet, naked, hard, and murderous, I’m not sure which one of those things will take priority in my brain right now, and that sounds damn hazardous.

A thought occurs to me—has this been a set-up from the start? Did he hear me come in and start that shit just to fuck with me? Wind me up, see what I would do? He’s definitely masturbating—there’s no faking that when I can see his hard-on and his hand, but the shit he said… I wouldn’t put it past Grimmjow to literally get off on knowing he’s messing with my head.

If that’s the case, then I realize I’ve given him the single most amusing response I possibly could.

And he doesn’t really want me.

The thought stings more than I expected, the rejection actually worse than the embarrassment. What even?

“We got better senses than you—I can smell you, Kurosaki,” Grimmjow says. And then he fucking groans. It’s quiet, and it sure doesn’t sound fake.

“H-how long? How long have you known?” I ask, not knowing what else to do.

“I should be the one asking that. I ain’t the one hidin’ in the corner listenin’ to some other guy jerk off in the shower. I might like to know how long ya been there.” Is he pissed? I can’t tell, which leads me to think he’s not. If Grimmjow is pissed, you usually know about it.

“Urahara asked me to bring you a towel because there weren’t any,” I explain, knowing how stupid it sounds, true though it may be. He didn’t even ask me to explain myself, but I feel compelled to tell him, to cling to what little excuse for my behavior I have.  “Then you said my name.”

“It wasn’t a fuckin’ invitation,” Grimmjow grouses, and okay, maybe he is kinda pissed. Maybe, I think, with something like glee rising up in my chest, he’s _embarrassed._ Maybe he’s embarrassed by his tacky dirty talk. My derision falls a little flat, though, as my unhelpful brain repeats ‘cream up your tight little hole’ and yet another surge of arousal shudders up my spine. Grimmjow adds, “And that doesn’t tell me shit. I… I said your name a couple times.”

A couple? Sounded like more than a couple to me. But Grimmjow has a point. I’m aware enough to know I’m thoroughly in the wrong here, so I’ll tell him when I came in. 

“Okay. I came in when you said… when you said…” I trail off, realizing the flaw in this plan. I have to repeat what Grimmjow said in order to tell him when I came in. My cheeks are on fire, and I tell myself it’s just that I can’t stand repeating his mediocre dirty talk, but it’s not like I haven’t mumbled the same kind of shit to turn myself on in the past. I’m embarrassed to say it because it turned me right the fuck on to hear it coming out of his mouth.

When I force myself to say the words that are now forever burned into my mind, my voice comes out strange and strained, kind of flat and tripping over the words. “When you said, ‘Take… Take that dick, Kurosaki. You love it, don’t you. Such a...” That’s probably enough, but something compels me to add the last few words. Probably the way it made my dick stiffen to hear Grimmjow call me that in the first place has something to do with it. “Such a fucking slut.”

“Ah,” he says. He’s definitely embarrassed. Who even knew that was something he could do, a setting he had. Maybe he’s blushing.

After a pause, he doles out his quid pro quo. He says, “I heard it when yer hand hit the wall. Then when I stopped talkin’ and started payin’ attention to see if anyone was in here, I realized I could smell ya, standin’ there listenin’ to me jerk off. I didn’t know whether to be pissed off or freaked out or turned on or what.”

We stand there in awkward silence for nearly an entire minute. It’s torturous. I’m still hard and I’m sure he is too, and we have no idea what to do next.

Grimmjow, bless him, apparently decides to just roll with it. “This ain’t fair. You got to hear me, but I didn’t get to hear you. I know ya been touchin' that dick o’ yours, quit bitin’ yer lip off and let me hear it.”

“You… you want to hear me jerk off?” 

“I think it’s only fair,” Grimmjow says, and I can hear the wolfish smile in his voice.

I’m so desperate for release, for relief, that I don’t hesitate. I unbutton my jeans and unzip them, knowing Grimmjow will hear the zipper, and tug my boxer-briefs down out of the way, the waistband snapping under my balls. I stagger from the sheer relief of it as I wrap my hand around my cock, half-leaning, half-falling against the wall with a moan.

“Shit,” Grimmjow mutters, or at least I think that’s what it was.

“Fuck, yes, Grimmjow,” I pant, gulping in air between each word. 

Grimmjow laughs, not his usual manic laugh but something low and rich that rolls down my spine like dark honey. He says, “Listening gets you hot, doesn’t it, Kurosaki?”

“You can call me Ichigo,” I tell him, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment because I have no idea why I just said that.

“Ichigo…” he purrs, and okay, yeah, that must be why. I groan, my head feeling like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool and heat. I’ve heard that the human male body does in fact have enough blood to supply both the brain and an erection, but I think that maybe that’s not the case when you’re _this_ hard.

I’m making so much noise, every breath coming in as a gasp and shuddering out as a shaky little moan, and even the sound of my hand working my dick seems impossibly loud. I get so wet when I’m this aroused, slick to my wrist, and I can’t make the _schlick-schlick-schlick_ noise any quieter. 

Somebody’s going to walk by and hear me. I can’t stop making noise, so I’ve got to get away from the door. I cross the room in a few quick steps and lean against the sink, still stroking.

I’m now directly opposite the shower door. Grimmjow can see me, and I can see him, the blurry fuzzy outlines of each other. 

“If somebody walked by they’d hear me, if I stayed by the door,” I explain.

Grimmjow starts to open the sliding shower door and my heart stops beating, I swear it does. I’m going to get to see him. He’s going to see me, too. I don’t know which part of that excites me more. He will not be the same Grimmjow I saw when I last saw Grimmjow, and to him, I will not be the same Ichigo. You can’t go home again, and you can’t really call someone enemy when you’ve heard them masturbate to thoughts of losing themselves in your body, thoughts of kissing you when you come. I don’t know about the kissing, really, but that’s how I’d picture it.

He’s gorgeous. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bitten red, his wet hair slicked back to show off the angles of his face, and his jaw is smooth and symmetrical, which is strange but I’ve gotten used to it over the past few days. His eyes are hot and dark as they take in my face and then the rest of me. Mostly, I am still dressed, but I’ve got my dick out and he sees that, likes it. I still my hand so he can see it better, see it as it dribbles out yet more slick pre-come. A staticky burst of nervy arousal shoots up from between my legs to form a crackling pool in my belly because I really fucking like that he’s looking my dick. Everyone likes to be seen.

Finally, my eyes unlock from Grimmjow’s face and I am free to take in the rest of him, his big, beautiful, utterly lethal body, pounds and pounds more muscle on him than I’ll ever have. It turns me on so, so much—I’ve never been with a guy who was bigger than me, and that, I realize, is a terrible shame because imagining the way those massive arms would feel wrapped around me is way more arousing than imagining basically getting a hug should be. 

Grimmjow is bigger than me in _all_ the ways. That dick, though—fuck, _fuck._ My knees go weak and wobbly at the sight of it and I lean back a little more, let the sink take some more of my weight so I don’t fall. I’m middling-big in the downstairs department just like I am in every other department, firmly in the territory of above average but normal, whereas Grimmjow is teetering right on the edge of that category and the I’m-not-sure-this-really-exists-outside-of-the-internet category. It’s got to be nine inches long, I swear, and so fucking thick that I want to get my lips around it just to see if I can. I want him to fuck me so damn bad, but not right now because there’s no way I can handle waiting as long as it’ll take to get ready for _that._

Grimmjow makes an amused little humming sound, and I realize I’ve been staring for a good thirty seconds. 

“Jealous?” he asks, and my eyes flick up to his face to see his raised eyebrow.

I shake my head. I have no words. Apparently, I’m a size queen as well as a voyeur. Good to know.

“Tell me what you want, K—Ichigo,” Grimmjow says, and though he has to stop and correct himself it’s worth it to hear him say my name. I file it away in my brain, tagged: “This is how my name sounds on Grimmjow’s lips when he’s is a little nervous, a little smug, and a lot turned on.” I want to add more files to this newly formed collection, to hear Grimmjow say my name in a lot of ways, all the ways. I want to hear it how it sounds with when I’m sucking his dick and I want to hear how it sounds when I fuck him, two different shades of overwhelmed. Surprisingly, I want to hear it how it sounds afterwards, when he’s sated and falling asleep, and then how it sounds when he wakes up again, morning-rough and grouchy.

Tell me what you want? I want everything.

“Everything,” I admit, though I’m sure he doesn’t grasp the sudden wide scope of it. “But right now, mostly I want you to fuck me.”

This is also true, despite those strange, stray thoughts.

Grimmjow makes a harsh grunting sound and strokes himself a little harder, a little faster. “Ya like havin’ somethin’ shoved up your ass, baby?”

“Don’t call me ‘baby’,” I correct automatically. “But yeah, yeah I do. I kinda fuckin’ love it.” There’s a part of me that thinks I shouldn’t admit this so readily, but it gets overruled. Still, I add, “Got a problem with that?”

“Hell no, it’s hot as fuck. I _knew_ ya’d be a fuckin’ slut for this,” Grimmjow says, the words riding the edge of a snarl as he looks down, gesturing with the hand he has wrapped around his dick to indicate what ‘this’ is. His voice is breathless and harsh, impossibly excited, and he talks so crudely but it suits him. He lets out a low groan and gives the base of his dick a hard squeeze, then resumes stroking it more slowly. He’s close, he’s so close but he’s making himself wait, drawing it out. His dick is an angry purple-red and I fight down the impulse to go to my knees just so he can bust his nut all over my face.

“I wanna see that ass. Show me,” he demands, and I grin, as feral as anything I’ve ever seen on his face. 

I throw his words back at him. _“Ask me nice.”_

I hope he does, not just ‘cause I want to hear it but because I want to do it, want to bend over for him and present myself. This is not a surprise, I know this about myself already, that it gets me hard to be admired, objectified, to know someone’s looking and thinking “damn, do I ever want to tap that.” I’m an exhibitionist _and_ a voyeur—this should come as no surprise because I also want to submit to Grimmjow just about as much as I want to dominate him. All-purpose kinky fucker, Ichigo Kurosaki, at your service. A jack-of-all-kinks, that’s what I am.

“Dammit, Kurosaki,” he spits, surprise and anger flashing over his face, and, I think, excitement. He is unused to being challenged this way, and part of him likes it. I like that in turn. He likes that I like it, I think, and I suppose that I like that he likes that I—okay, that’s enough.

“C’mon, Grimmjow, don’t you wanna see my _tight little hole?_ ” I ask, trying for a smirk but ending up with something more like a snarl as pleasure draws my top lip up, tilts my eyebrows.

“Show me,” he growls, “ _Please_.”

Oh God. He actually fucking said it. The word was bitten out, rough and more like a threat than a courtesy, but he still said it. I didn’t really expect him to, and I was going to show him anyway, but he actually said it. I almost come right then and there.

I manage not to, and instead I shove my pants and underwear down together, then, shame roiling in my belly, bitter and delicious like come in my mouth, I turn, bend, and spread myself open for him with both hands. I’m such a fucking—

 _“Slut,”_ he breathes, and it sounds more reverent than insulting. He pants, these sharp, loud, hiccuping breaths, and I think he’s going to come but he doesn’t. I’m just out of touching distance unless he gets out of the shower, but if he’s the type that shoots rather than dribbles, I’m close enough for at least some of it to hit my ass. I’m almost disappointed when I don’t feel it, no matter how much I want to see his face when he comes.

The feeling of the air and his eyes on me spurs me on, and I return one hand to my slippery, throbbing dick, but only for a moment, only to borrow some of its wetness and slick up my middle and ring fingers so I can more easily push them inside myself. 

I moan, too loud, as I push them both in, all the way at once, my body sucking them in greedily, almost painlessly. Maybe it does hurt, but I’m flying so high on my own need that I don’t notice or care. It feels so fucking good; it’s a relief, to have them there, a little relief of the empty ache that started up the first time I realized how much I wanted Grimmjow in me. I withdraw them a little, putting even odds on whether I’m going to come all over the floor and my fucking socks the second I jab them hard against my prostate, and then I do it. 

I don’t come, but I taste copper in my mouth where I bite my lip and make way the hell too much noise anyway, and that’s when my knees give out again and I stumble and almost fall, catching myself against with a hand against the sink. 

“Holy fuck,” Grimmjow whispers. “Fuckin’ look at you. You want my dick in there so bad.”

Yes, I do. “Yes,” I moan. 

“Turn around if you’re gonna come,” Grimmjow says, “I wanna see it. I wanna see you.”

I’m not quite there but I turn around anyway, wanting to see Grimmjow’s face again. This has become a strange sort of contest of endurance, both of us desperate to come but not wanting to do it first, working ourselves and each other up more and more, unable to stop but never quite letting ourselves give in. 

I’ve still got my fingers inside myself and I make sure Grimmjow knows it, pumping them in and out, fucking myself, groaning nonstop, ‘uhh,’ and ‘ahn’ and ‘ _yeah.’_ My other hand is back on my dick, and this is it, this is the home stretch. I can’t stop again, I just can’t. I don’t care if it means I lose. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come so fucking hard and that’s all I care about.

“Grimmjow,” I gasp. “Grimmjow, tell me what you want to do to me.”

The ‘hurry!’ is implicit. I know just what I want to hear, but he doesn’t. I hope he guesses right.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Lift you up and fuck you against the wall so fuckin’ hard they’ll hear it in Seireitei. Jerk that pretty fuckin’ cock, make you come on my dick, baby, make you come so  hard you fuckin’ scream for me.”

“And then?”

“Then, baby, then I’m gonna fill that ass up.” Grimmjow’s voice is rough and thick, losing its shape, dissolving, and if this was any other person in the world I’d think he sounded stupid and cheap, but this is Grimmjow and somehow, that makes it impossibly hot. “So much, I’m gonna come so fuckin’ much, oh _shit_ , Kurosaki, I’m…I’m gonna cream up your insides so fuckin’ good, Ichigo, cream up that tight little hole—”

That’s it.

I’m gone.

I’m fucking done.

I throw my head back on a silent scream as I feel it shooting down my spine and straight out through my dick, and there’s thick, slick, sticky fluid shooting out of me, forceful white strands like something out of goddamn Spiderman. I can never seem to remember how good this feels, so every time, every orgasm, it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt, and it’s so good, oh _God_ it’s so good.

I open my eyes for a second and see Grimmjow is watching me. He’s watching me like I’m the sexiest thing in the whole goddamn world, his best wet dream made flesh. I try to make my eyes stay open to watch him watch me, but I can’t as the next wave hits me, but it’s okay because just knowing he’s there is enough to make this even better.

I work myself through it with short, fast strokes, my dick angled up and I swear I’m coming so fucking hard that it’s gonna hit the ceiling. Then, finally, I manage to get my eyes open again and see that Grimmjow is still watching me, enraptured, as I shudder, wringing the last few drops from myself and hey, I think somewhere in there I came in my own hair.

I slide down the sink and the cupboard under it to sit on the floor, panting, not a thought in my head, hollowed out. That’s one of my favorite feelings in the world, that moment before after it’s over but before reality comes creeping back in, when your entire awareness is narrowed down to the soft, sated thrumming of your heart as it begins to slow back down.

“C’mere,” Grimmjow pants, interrupting my moment of perfect blankness, pointing vaguely to the floor in front of him. “Fuckin’ c’mere.”

I look at him, not really feeling like moving just now, my brain running at about a quarter speed as it reboots. I don’t get it.

Then he says, his voice cracking over the words like he needs this more than life itself, “Ichigo, _come here_.”

I can’t resist the open desperation in his voice, the needy rush of my name on his lips, and I crawl to where he wants me. (It’s only a couple feet, so it’s not worth standing and walking.) En route, I belatedly figure out what he wants and it sends a pulse of near-painful arousal through my body, my softening dick jerking violently.

I grin up at him. This has been such a trip… I’m not even sure this… _encounter_ counts as sex and it’s definitely been one of the more intense sexual experiences in my life to date.

He gasps, and I close my eyes in a hurry, lifting my face and opening my mouth like a good little slut. 

The first spurt hits square on my lips and tongue, and even though I’m expecting it, my body does this thing where it seizes up like Grimmjow’s come is goddamn electrified, shocked arousal freezing me in place. I can taste it, so bitter, he needs to eat more fruit or something because it’s so fucking bitter like baking soda and water on a q-tip in kindergarten. 

Grimmjow is groaning, low and so fucking broken, like he’s never had an orgasm before and he thinks he’s dying.

It stripes my cheek and more goes into my mouth and I don’t know if I’ve ever had something this intensely arousing happen to me fifteen seconds after I’ve finished coming. Well, I say ‘finished,’ but my dick is twitching and jerking like it’s fucking possessed, and this electric arousal zaps through me again and I think I might pulse out a couple more weak little dribbles of it onto my jeans like an encore.

I involuntarily join Grimmjow in moaning like broken things for a moment, only mine sounds weird because I’m still sitting here with my mouth open and a little puddle of Grimmjow’s bitter, bitter come cupped on my tongue like it’s something precious. The last stripe doesn’t make it onto my face but claims what I suspect was my last unscathed article of clothing, my over-shirt. 

  He huffs, sighs—it’s a _holy shit_ kind of sigh, and boy can I relate—and says, in the manner of someone truly impressed, “Well, _fuck_.”

I take that to mean he’s done, so I open my eyes. He’s closed his, too, at some point, and he opens them again just a second after I open mine and when he does they go wide, looking at me like…  Like I don’t even know what.

Like a fucking burning bush, that’s what he looks at me like. Like the light of heaven is shining on my jizz-covered face. 

I curl my tongue back into my mouth and _damn_ is that ever bitter, but I swallow without grimacing, making as much of a show of it as I can, looking at him with half-lidded eyes and tipping my head back to show the bob of my throat as his come goes into my body irretrievably, becoming a part of me.

He looks at me and just keeps looking, so fucking wrecked, like just this has rocked his world and I wonder again if I’m the more experienced of the two of us. He looks blissed-out and fucked-out and wet from the shower, his face is flushed and his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. He is… He is almost intolerably sexy like this. I know what I’m thinking about the next fifty or so times I jerk off.

Then hands on my shirt pull me up and kiss me, eating the taste of himself from my mouth, and it just completely throws me for a loop that we haven’t kissed yet and I’m still dressed.

I mean, what.

This is the first time we’ve touched that wasn’t a fight or an accident.

Seriously, what the hell, I just let a dude who had literally never touched me sexually or even in a friendly way come on my face.

I repeat: what?

_Weirdest. First time. Ever._

And now he’s kissing me like we’re stranded underwater and my mouth is the only source of oxygen, and I’ve never had a first kiss that tasted so bitter before.

It tastes sweet, too, if we’re talking metaphorically, and I realize I think of this as a weird first time, not a weird one-off event, Grimmjow’s stupidly, unexpectedly soft lips on mine as a first kiss, not an only.

Grimmjow’s lips are seriously way the hell too soft for a guy like him, I mean, does he use chapstick or what? And where does he get the energy for such enthusiasm in kissing right now? I sag against him, enervated, and pity Urahara’s water bill because now I need a shower—I’m sweaty as hell and I’m certain now that I managed to come in my own hair (which is a total first; good job, self) and maybe Grimmjow helped a bit with that too, grazing the hair that falls around the sides of my face.

“I’m sure as hell not going to dinner like this, so I’m taking a shower. You want to make out some more, just stay there,” I tell him, then step back to shuck off my shirt. I’m glad to get my pants the rest of the way off, because maybe it was sexy in the heat of the moment, but everyone looks stupid as hell with their pants around their knees and their junk hanging out. Total nakedness is a definite improvement.

I have no idea what clothes I’m going to put on after I get out of the shower, but I’ll figure that out then. 

Showering together is way too intimate—not having sex in the shower but actually showering, the sharing of an otherwise solitary, ordinary routine of cleanliness—for two people who have barely touched, but then again…

Then again, basically talking somebody to orgasm is pretty intimate, and so is (oh God, why is shame so much less fun when I’m not desperate to come) bending over to show them your asshole. Letting them see and hear you do something you otherwise have only ever done by yourself without regard for how you look doing it is pretty damn intimate.

I just really don’t know what to make of the whole thing.

If I’d ever considered what sex with Grimmjow would be like, which quite frankly I have not, I would have thought it would be vicious and violent. After a fight, maybe, all adrenaline and anger, we’d probably both be bleeding from where we’d hurt each other and we would hurt each other more while we had sex, too rough, biting, scratching, too little preparation and spit for lube. I know Grimmjow gets hard at least some of the time when he fights, I’ve seen it, and for it’s not like I’ve never had it happen to me. 

For something I’ve never thought about I have a really clear mental picture of how this should have gone. Huh. There’s a part of me that’s a little disappointed, I’m surprised to find. I had heretofore managed, somehow, not to notice that I kind of wanted that bloody, brutal fuck on the Hueco Mundo dunes. Well, just because Grimmjow was in a relatively tame mood today for the construction of his fantasy, that doesn’t mean he’s always that way. I feel oddly heartened by this realization. If I really want to do it that way, I bet I can get him to go for it.

But that being said, my view of Grimmjow had been irreversibly changed by this encounter. I realize now something that I never quite realized before, thought it seems obvious in retrospect. Grimmjow is a lot of things—Arrancar, warrior, former Espada; violent and volatile and desperate to prove himself. But here’s what I never noticed before: he’s also a dude. Just, like, a guy, you know? A guy, who likes guy things like beer and hamburgers and lazing around. A guy, who wants a warm, soft, tight place to stick his dick and a pleasing body to kiss and touch while he does it. A guy, who maybe even wants to connect with someone because what’s that they say? No man is an island. Grimmjow’s not exactly a man, so we’ll change it a little: No dude is an island. 

While I’ve been thinking, I’ve been showering on autopilot. Grimmjow apparently is a get-off-then-wash-up type (I’m the opposite), so he’s been doing the same thing and we’re both so post-orgasmically pleased with the world that it doesn’t feel weird or awkward to shove each other out of the spray when we want it. It only gets weird when I start thinking about it, about how intimate and domestic it is to shower together, that I start feeling strange. 

I wish I knew what was going through Grimmjow’s head. Has his view of me changed as much as my view of him has? What exactly does he want from me, anyway? As bizarre as it is to contemplate, I have a strong feeling that it isn’t just sex. I think all the ways I could try to find out, all the ways I could ask what I want to know, and eventually I settle for smirking at him and asking “So, do you think about me often when you jerk off?”

Grimmjow glares at me and answers. “No.”

He’s blushing. Actually blushing. It’s glorious, and only confirms every suspicion I have about him right now.

“Your face says you do,” I inform him, amused.

“Not often,” he answers shortly. “Just sometimes.”

“I’ve never thought of you,” I tell him, and watch his expression fade into careful neutrality, eyes clouding. It looks like it hurts, like a sudden hope for the previously hopeless on the verge of being dashed once and for all. It tells me all I need to know, and I don’t enjoy it even a little. I add, “No, I haven’t thought of you before, but I’m sure as hell going to start.”

I grin up at him. Not too far up, but definitely up. Three inches of height difference is not that much in the grand scheme of things, but it means my eyes are about level with his nose. I like this, a little too much, maybe. Maybe it’s just my still rather post-coital (not that you could call what happened ‘coitus,’ I don’t think) state of mind, but it really just makes me what to curl up with him and be the little spoon. I never get to be the little spoon, and it kind of bums me out.

Okay, wow, I’m really getting ahead of myself here. Am I seriously contemplating turning my back on him? Yeah, I guess so, actually. He’s had plenty of opportunities to try to kill me since he’s been here and he hasn’t yet, so it doesn’t seem too dangerous. Am I seriously contemplating cuddling with him? That one, I do not have a ready answer for.

Steering this back onto terra firma, I reach up, reach for him, dragging my thumb over his bottom lip. “Do you wanna give me some more material to work with, for my future… endeavors?”

Grimmjow grins, sudden and wild, his trademark grin. “If yer sayin’ what I think yer sayin, then ya ain’t gonna need any.”

“Big talk,” I remark mildly. “Sure you can keep up?”

“Talk ain’t the only thing I got that’s big,” Grimmjow promised. What is it about him that lets him successfully carry off a comment like that?

“I noticed,” I admit.

“Noticed? I think I saw some drool comin’ out of yer mouth.” Grimmjow tells me, eyebrow cocked, smirking. He leans a little closer, almost whispers, “Next time that happens I hope it’s cause you got somethin’ worth droolin’ over actually in yer mouth.”

I’ve got nothing to say to that one. I am not going to tell Grimmjow just how enthused I am about his dick, for all the good that will do me. He clearly already knows. Instead, I say, “You didn’t answer the question. I’ve got a big appetite. You really think you can handle me?”

I’m equal parts fucking with him and genuinely curious. I haven’t had many relationships, but I know I’m pretty much always the one wearing out my partner for the night, still happy to go for another round while they’re passed the hell out. I’d be happy to do that if they weren’t passed out, I mean. I’m not into that kind of thing.

“I did answer the question,” Grimmjow says, “Ya just didn’t understand.”

Then he grabs me by the hips and yanks me close, so close, pressing us together and shit, now I get it. Well, fuck. He meant ‘talk isn’t the only thing I’ve got that’s big _right now,_ ’ not just like, in general. Arousal fizzes out from the point of contact to spread warmth across my skin, from the point where Grimmjow’s cock rests against my hip, mostly hard. 

It’s been what, five minutes? No more than ten, certainly. I know this is _again_ and not _still_ —I just saw Grimmjow’s cock just chilling out being softish a few minutes ago as I was ogling his soapy body. I roll my hips against Grimmjow’s with a little sound of approval, feeling my own cock stirring again in response. Oh, _hell_ yes. It is _on_. 

I don’t even try to repress the lascivious grin that makes its way onto my face. “I’m not hungry. You wanna skip dinner?”

“I barely had an appetizer. I’m _starving_ ,” Grimmjow says, very clearly not talking about food. This amuses me, because I didn’t know euphemism was a language he spoke.

“Starving? I’m sure I’ve got something that’ll fill you up,” I answer slyly, curious as to how he’ll react. 

“Oh, you think that’s what’s gonna happen? That’s cute,” he replies with a sneer, but there’s no feeling behind it. He’s not totally averse to the idea, I can tell. He adds, “You’ll be too busy ridin’ my dick to even think about ridin’ my ass.”

He leans in, nuzzles along the tendon of my throat. His voice is a whisper, hot and eager. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, Kurosaki, work you open and stuff you full, then set ya on top of me and let you work until I can’t take it anymore, until I flip ya over and just fuckin’ give it to ya the way we both want me to.”

I let out an embarrassing little whine at the thought, imagining how impossibly satisfying it would feel to sink down on that thick cock.

The water is getting cold, I notice. I turn it off with a decisive flick of the wrist.

“Everyone is here for dinner for at least a couple hours. If we go back to my house, there won’t be anyone there,” I suggest.

Grimmjow laughs, low and hot; pleased. “Don’t think you can keep quiet?”

I give him a look, arching my eyebrow. It’s supposed to be a smirk, but I’m not sure I quite pull it off. I know full well that I’m not going to be able to keep quiet short of being gagged and I’m not in the mood for that.

“Me?” I say anyway, “Worry about yourself.”

Maybe we’ll both be loud.

* * *

 

We were. We were very loud, especially me, but he made his share of noise, too. It was the first of many loud nights, much to the misfortune of our current neighbors. I feel bad about it sometimes, but when it actually matters, Grimmjow’s either making me feel too good to care or too good to restrain myself even if I remembered to try. We’ve only gotten better, he and I.

In all the ways, we’ve gotten better. It turns out that Arrancar get less Hollow-like with time, the more they adjust to their new neurological structure. Oh, he’s still the same old Grimmjow, really, only about a quarter domesticated and the rest of him a wild creature, but it turns out that’s okay by me. 

We’re not a normal couple, not by a long shot. We fight almost as loudly and enthusiastically as we fuck, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. And when I say fight, I mean it— we’ve been known to settle our disagreements in ways that would probably couples councillors (as well as any other humans that could see us) running screaming into the night. Think Bankai, think “Grind, Pantera.” (And boy should you see Grimmjow’s second-level Resurrecćion. It’s glorious, terrifying, and kind of hot. I think he thinks the same thing about my equivalent form, for all he makes fun of my horn.)

Not that fighting really ever settles anything, but it’s kind of our version of angry make-up sex. Well, actually no, it’s more like our version of angry make-up sex foreplay. The sex comes after, and what a thing it is. We are both always very motivated to win those fights. But our fights, though, they're a thing, though, a thing with rules, a thing that happens at a designated place and time when it needs to happen. It’s not like our relationship is violent in the ordinary way relationships are violent, and I think that makes it less fucked-up. Not everyone agrees with me on this point, but they’ve learned to deal with it—it took them a while to figure this out, but I was never going to have a normal life. I am not a normal person, I’m a crazy mixed-up amalgamation, and I wouldn’t have myself any other way. 

Here’s why I think it’s okay: we’re evenly matched, still and always. There is no power disparity between us. He can take anything I can throw at him and vice-versa, and that’s an important part of what we are to each other. It’s taken us a while to get there, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world—it takes a special kind of trust, as special kind of faith, to swing a sword at someone you love with all your might and trust him to be able to block. That’s what Grimmjow and I have.

So yeah, my life. Sometimes fighting Hollows, sometimes having feelings, sometimes work or school, sometimes friends and family, otherwise, if you filmed it, it would be porn. I mean, not all the time—we do sleep, and sometimes watch Netflix—but a lot of it. An extremely agreeable quantity that as far as I understand it greatly exceeds the norm for these things. Hey, we’re energetic guys, and once we figured out the trick of tapping our reiryoku for instant recovery, well… Let’s just say no-one saw us for a few days.

I don’t know what the future holds, whether this thing between him and I is sustainable for the kind of time that we have ahead. Shinigami, and presumably Arrancar, age slower the stronger they are, so Grimmjow and I are going to be around for a damn long time, together or separate. But I’m not worried about that. The thing about a life like mine is that it’s a pretty damn good one for the whole ‘living in the moment’ thing because so many of the moments are worth living in.

 


End file.
